Now and Then
by goodnight-sammy
Summary: Quentin remembers everything after 3x05. And so does Eliot. Only Quentin seems a lot more confused about where to go from here. He can't separate now from then. Will Q be able to figure out what he wants before it's too late? Queliot mostly with some mentions of Quentin/Alice
1. Chapter 1: Quentin

Quentin stumbles numbly backwards as memories flood into his mind. It shocked him, in a way—not the fact that there was this _entire life_ he had lived, but that he had _forgotten._ How could he have _forgotten_? Q only barely notices it when he hits the steps behind him, only barely notices it when he crumples to the ground. What he does notice is Eliot beside him, aching like a third arm, like he has always been there and _hasn't he?_ He shakes his head only slightly, trying to separate what was and what is and what never even happened.

"I got so _old,_ " Eliot breathes. Quentin can feel his pulse in his ears now. It is heavy thumps against his eardrums, like some greater self knocking at the door to his mind. He pushes the thought away as his stomach drops.

"You _died,_ " Q clarifies. The _I had to burry you,_ goes unsaid but remains a living, breathing thing in the space between them.

"We had a family." And isn't that the kicker? It wasn't just _them_ affected by this whole fucked up situation—it was their son, his wife and children. Whole generations of people that existed or maybe didn't or maybe did but never will again. A whole lifetime spent loving and hurting, living and dying, _gone._

The two of them sit there on the steps silently for a moment longer. There seems to be some unspoken understanding between them that _now_ was different than _then,_ which only served to make the tension in the room thicker—Q could practically see it.

"I don't know what to say," Quentin mumbles, but even that seems too loud against the quiet.

"You didn't know what to say then, either," Eliot laughs, but the sound is bitter and makes Quentin's stomach churn. Of course he remembers that night—their first anniversary, all 'ums' and 'overthinking.' "I guess there was never really words for what we were," he decides, throwing his head up to study some piece of architectural majesty on the ceiling. It sounded practically elegant the way the words fell from his tongue like gemstones. Q wanted more than anything to kiss them from his li—Quentin shook his head a little more forcefully this time. _No, now not then. That never happened. That never_ happened.

Eliot's eyes linger on him, and Quentin can feel the way they study him—gliding up and down, calculating.

"Well shit Q," Eliot decides, standing suddenly. "It was never me, was it? It was never going to _be_ me, was it?" he takes long strides toward the door.

"El—" Quentin pleads, wanting him to stay, to extinguish the deep ache inside of him, but he doesn't move. He remains there, sitting on the steps in the throne room, helpless. He is chained to some idea of his life as it could be. Of fixing Alice, of being _normal_ again. But all of it, everything, is muddled up in Eliot. The taste of him and the sight of him and all of him, and Quentin can't seem to separate the two— _now_ and _then._

The echo of the door slamming shut reverberates through him like a gunshot. The definitiveness of the sound seems to say he's lost his chance at either of it. He will never be what he once was, not with Alice, and now, it seems, not with Eliot either. The pulsing in his ears gets louder, more urgent. So he closes his eyes, resigned to it all, left with nothing but his heartbeat and a twisted reminder of footsteps against the cold, stone floor.


	2. Chapter 2: Eliot

As soon as the door shut behind him, Eliot ran to his chamber. The sobs that course through him now seem ridiculous for the circumstances. Sure, he's been rejected before… everyone strikes out now and again—Even _the_ Eliot Waugh—and he was never one to care about, well, _anything,_ but Quentin was different—wasn't he? They had lived a life together… and he was just ready to throw it all away as soon as they got back to their own time?

He sits slowly onto his bed, the soft covers billowing out around him. He studies his crown in his hands, running his thumb up and down the deep, reddish-brown stones. Quentin was _everything_ to him. The sun fucking rises and sets with him—or it did once, or it does now, or it did but not really and not now and-

"God DAMNIT!" Eliot screams, throwing his crown across the room. It lands with a dull thud, and something like finality. He can't have anything he wants, can he? All Eliot gets are hand-me-down dreams and a shit load of responsibility he never asked for. The walls of his room seem to close in on him, pushing down everything into some empty hole inside of himself.

A knock at the door tears him from his thoughts.

"Eliot?" asks Margo, slipping her head through the entryway, "what the _fuck_ happened back there? Quentin is crumpled up on the floor like a kicked puppy and you're in here, what? Sulking?"

"It's nothing, Bambi," Eliot declares, standing and smiling from his cheeks in an effort to hide the tears that had begun to well near the corners of his eyes.

"Like Hell it's nothing," She protests, letting herself in. She stands firm, arms crossed and legs shoulder-width apart in a clear power stance. She's giving him the look that would usually have him confessing his deepest, darkest secrets by now. He can feel them climb up the back of his throat, ready to bubble out—but things were different now, weren't they? He was a father, he knew how to deal with demanding children.

He was a father once. He had known how to deal with demanding children.

Eliot closes his eyes and takes a single deep breath in, before setting his shoulders. "I said it was nothing," he states again, slowly and calmly. Margo's eyes flicker over him searchingly. Eliot knows she will find no hints of the secrets he's hiding. He can tell she's surprised at first—like she knows he's not quite the same Eliot he was just hours ago, but she doesn't speak to it.

He brushes past her, shoulders just barely touching.

"Don't we have a country to save and little rascal to deal with?" Eliot calls behind him. He barely listens for the click of Margo's heels before pushing further down the hall.

A.N: Okay guys, I know this chapter was super short, and I plan on writing more if you'll have me! So feel free to let me know what you think, leave a favorite or a reply, the positivity really keeps me going! Thanks so much- G.N.S


	3. Chapter 3: Eliot and Quentin

Eliot had not spoken to Quentin in three days. Eliot had not spoke _about_ Quentin in three days. Eliot had not spoken in _the same room_ as Quentin in three days. And yeah, that stung him a little bit. You live an entire lifetime with someone, live and die with someone, and then what—? Forget about them completely? Erase them from the face of the Earth? That is what it seemed Eliot was doing. He avoided any mention of Q, any chance encounter. He stuck to his room mostly, and when business needed to be attended to, he took back passageways. Even though it usually was a longer trip that way, well, it was a much quieter one.

Margo was obviously fed up with the angsty bull-shit these two were pulling—always huffing and puffing about _them_ more than her winy little pre-teen husband.

It wasn't until another stage of the quest popped up that Eliot spoke to Quentin again. It seemed to him, at least, practically a blessing when they found out the next key was going to be a long boat trip away.

"You'll have to do this one on your own, Quentin," Eliot sighed, uncaring. In reality he was busy studying his hands or the hem of his robe or anything that kept him from looking at the man before him.

And sure, maybe it broke Eliot's heart just a little bit when Quentin frowned, obviously disappointed, but the feeling faded as quickly as it came. Quentin didn't _really_ want Eliot anywhere near him, he just didn't want to have to finish this stupid quest on his own. _Maybe he'll find himself a boat-girl,_ Eliot thought bitterly, _someone else to be life-partners with during this damn thing. Obviously I wasn't good enough._

"Fine," Quentin huffed, before turning sharp on his heel.

Quentin was an idiot. He couldn't just open his mouth and tell Eliot how he felt—which was stupid, they were practically _married_ for god's sake. What made things worse was the fact that Eliot hadn't spoken to him in three days—which was probably the longest time they've spent a part since Rupert got sick and Eliot had to—wait. No. That was _then._ Quentin felt like banging his head against a wall, or throwing himself off a bridge, or anything really.

Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing. Sure, maybe he'd been _moping_ a little too much, but his life was a little fucked up right now, okay?

When Q found out the next key was an actual adventure for once, involving magical boats, he couldn't help but get excited. Maybe he and Eliot could figure what was happening between them. Maybe he could actually get a grip and explain how he felt for once, instead of falling into this awkward limbo he always seems to get trapped in. At least—that was what he had hoped.

"You'll have to do this one on your own, Quentin," Eliot sighed, and the way he threw about Q's name like it meant nothing to Eliot hurt. Hadn't they had—weren't they—but no, that hadn't happened, and even if it could have happened, well hadn't Quentin royally fucked that up as well?

Quentin frowned slightly, dipping his head. Maybe Eliot was finally over it. Maybe what they had had, or didn't really have but did once, or whatever, didn't matter to him anymore. Maybe Quentin didn't matter to him anymore. It would make sense. That's what always ends up happening to Q.

"Fine," Quentin huffed, before turning sharp on his heel. _I guess I'll just have to do this by myself._

A.N: Wow, still short and about three days later than I was planning but here ya go! It is a little longer than last chapter. I really appreciated all the positive comments you guys left, it really gave me the motivation to continue. -G.N.S


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